


catacombs

by thetalkingcrocus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e02 Primavera, M/M, Oral Sex, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 18:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetalkingcrocus/pseuds/thetalkingcrocus
Summary: Will hears hoofbeats in the tunnel before he sees him and he knows even as he turns that Hannibal has heard him. Sharp stag shadows blossom on one forking tunnel wall; in the other entrance Hannibal stands, waiting, hands clasped and eyes wary in the dim light. He doesn’t look the slightest bit out of place posed in this chamber, guarded by skeletons like a pharaoh or a god.





	catacombs

**Author's Note:**

> A scene I couldn't help but write after watching the episode "Primavera". My first work in this fandom, and the first non-academic writing I've done in a long while. I hope you enjoy!

Will hears hoofbeats in the tunnel before he sees him and he knows even as he turns that Hannibal has heard him. Sharp stag shadows blossom on one forking tunnel wall; in the other entrance Hannibal stands, waiting, hands clasped and eyes wary in the dim light. He doesn’t look the slightest bit out of place posed in this chamber, guarded by skeletons like a pharaoh or a god.

 

“I forgive you” Will repeats, tasting blood (his? Abigail’s?) on his tongue.

 

Hannibal inhales as if about to speak, but all that comes out is Will’s name. It’s clipped, cursory, as though he’s welcoming Will into his office to discuss his nightmares, as though he hadn’t cradled Will against his body and felt the knife glide into his skin and his blood streaming against his hands. He takes a step forward, composed, and then another.

 

Will launches himself forward, magnetized, with a painful crash as his hands hit the stone wall on either side of Hannibal’s broad shoulders. He tucks his head into the crook of the other man’s shoulder and his hands ball into fists as he hears Hannibal’s almost involuntary deep inhale.

 

Hannibal brings his hand up to cradle the side of Will’s face with the same kind of somehow methodical intimacy that had followed the stabbing. He takes another big, deep breath, steadying as Will trembles, and speaks.   
  
“You found me.”

 

Will rallies, focuses on the somatic, tries to separate himself from the blurring images flickering fastfastfast inside his head (the feeling of a phone slick under his sweaty palms, the slick of blood on Hannibal’s kitchen floor, the sound of rain). He wrestles the justice and morality and propriety inside him. He thinks about what he told Pazzi.

 

“I’m not the only one,” Will mutters, feeling a flicker of protective-possessive emotion well up inside of him as Hannibal tilts his head in that birdlike way he has. “But… I will be. You probably heard him earlier. I won’t… I’m not planning on letting him get any closer.”   


“And what do you plan to do to distract Commendatore Pazzi?”

 

“I’m not,” Will says, evenly, looking right into Hannibal’s eyes despite the urge to glance away, “going to _distract_ him.”

 

He knows Hannibal can see the hunger in his gaze; he knows because he can feel Hannibal’s reflected back and seconds later Hannibal’s hands are around his wrists and he’s the one with his back to the wall. It is only when he pulls away from the rough stone that he feels the blood trickle down his palm. He offers the wound to Hannibal, working on some sort of instinct that his conscious mind can’t justify. Working off of the desire to engulf he feels radiating from Hannibal in waves. Hannibal licks his palm, bites at the already irritated skin, and kisses him.

 

It’s a biting kiss, a searing kiss, and as Hannibal’s mouth opens under his Will can no longer suppress the desire to consume. He thinks about someone – Rinaldo Pazzi, Jack Crawford, anyone – laying a hand on Hannibal and presses closer, as if he could crawl inside his skin. Their kiss is hungry as they fall back into the shadows, Will lifts one of his legs, trusting his balance to Hannibal and wrapping his calf behind Hannibal’s waist. He feels 16 again. He feels unbearably old. He feels like a murderer. He _feels_.

 

Hannibal’s sharp teeth sink in to Will’s lip and he feels the heat between them, feels Hannibal’s erection growing against his hip and knows Hannibal can feel the same from him.

 

“Will,” Hannibal breathes, like a benediction, and then, again, “You knew where to find me.”

 

When Will presses his cheek and jaw against Hannibal’s face to kiss the prominent arch of his temples, he feels wetness catch in his stubble.

 

Will raises a hand and presses it against Hannibal’s throat. Gently. He thinks of all the ways he has imagined killing Hannibal. He thinks of the spray of blood, or the choking gasp beneath his calloused palm. He thinks of the police forces pursuing Hannibal, and is flooded with rage at even the thought of Hannibal coming to harm at the hands of someone other than himself. Will comes back to present with the speeding thrum of Hannibal’s blood under his fingers but he doesn’t want to shed it – he wants to taste it. To climb inside it.

 

Hannibal looks at Will  and raises his chin minutely. Exposing the expanse of neck. He presses closer, and Will surges to kiss him again.

 

It might make more sense to leave the chilly catacombs beneath the city, especially as they each lose their coats, shirts, layer by layer. This thing between them is desperate, is yearning, wants to crawl into each other’s skins so nothing could ever part them.  Will’s mind flickers and flickers until it is grounded by the cold damp beneath his knees. Hannibal’s hands tremble in his hair and when he takes him into his mouth he feels, bizarrely, the weight of the ortolan, their own private communion, superimposed on his tongue.

 

Hannibal doesn’t really come apart, and Will is already apart, one raw nerve from heart to skin to mind, but there’s still a rush of satisfaction from Hannibal’s huffing breaths and Will has to pull away, sink his teeth into the soft pale expanse of Hannibal’s thigh hard enough to bruise. He marks the other thigh to match, and looks up at Hannibal through dark lashes. When he thinks of these marks fading, Will feels a sob crawl up inside him and so he scrapes his teeth over the reddening skin and counts his breaths until he is present again, on his knees for Hannibal, offering his heart and his throat like a sacrifice on an altar.

 

Will loses himself to Hannibal then, in a way that makes him acknowledge just how much he’s already lost. Hannibal returns the favor with methodical, predatory hands, and bites a searing mark into Will’s neck. Will gives him one to match and soon there is someone’s blood in both their mouths and it doesn’t matter whose, not really.

They pull apart and Hannibal runs his finger across blood on Will’s lip, and then lifts it to his own mouth.   
  
“Transubstantiation” he says, in a tone close to worship.   
  
“Something like that,” Will replies.

 

When they collect themselves to leave, their shoulders brush firmly like a many-limbed thing. It’s not quite clinging to each other, but it’s close like forgiveness.

 

They walk out, watched by the dead.

 

 


End file.
